


Cooking Time

by resonae



Category: Bourne Legacy (2012), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), Real Person Fiction, S.W.A.T. (2003), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resonae/pseuds/resonae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sort of a super-fic with five different parts, where Gamble cooks for Street, Clint cooks for Tony, Brandt cooks for Hunt, Aaron cooks for Jason, and Jeremy cooks for Colin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cooking Time

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t cook. I burn scramble eggs. So if there’s anything wrong with the way Jeremy’s characters cook and bake things in this fic, just… please see it as a cute mistake T_T. Also, ratings gradually go up for each part, starting from T for breakfast and M for midnight snack.

**i. breakfast**

 

Brian gets up at exactly 5:29. He shuts off the alarm that’s set for 5:30 so it won’t wake the other man in the bed. When Brian gets up, Jim’s arms slide from his chest down to his lap, and Jim mutters something in his sleep. Brian rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but smile as he slips out quietly and gently lands a kiss to Jim’s temple.

 

After brushing his teeth and washing his face, he tugs on a shirt over his bare chest and then pulls the apron on before rummaging through the fridge for the basic ingredients of pancake batter. Flour, eggs, milk, sugar, salt, baking powder… where’s the butter? He has to dig for a bit before he realizes it’s in the freezer. He follows a recipe he’s long memorized, and he adds a pinch more of sugar because Jim likes his pancakes sweet. The electric whisk makes too much noise and will _definitely_ wake up Jim, so Brian takes up the egg beater and tries to make as little noise as possible as he whisks the batter.

 

By the time he shoves the pancake batter to set in the fridge, it’s already 6:15. He spent too much time looking for the butter because he forgot it was in the freezer. Cursing lowly under his breath, Brian pulls out the strawberry and honey. He curses for not remembering to husk and wash the strawberries the night before, but carefully washes the strawberries. Sure, they’re organic (he feeds Jim only the best), but doesn’t mean there’s no pesticide on them.

 

He pours milk into the mixer first and then plops the strawberries in, careful not to make the milk splash. He yanks the freezer open again and takes out the ice cubes he’s set the night before. They all plop into the mixer, and the honey goes last. He shuffles the mixer to the farther part of the house from the bedroom, the bottle of honey in one hand, and turns it on. He takes time tasting and pouring honey into the mix until it’s perfect. He all but runs back to the kitchen, pours the drink into two tall glasses and carefully places them in the fridge before quickly drinking the remainder and putting the mixer glass under running water.

 

A quick glance to the clock tells him it’s 6:45. Damn himself for not washing the strawberries last night. He quickly turns two stoves on and heats and oils two pans. Bacon. Where’s the bacon? He spends at least ten more minutes digging the fridge for bacon. He scowls. He swears he bought bacon two days ago, and unless – oh. Of course.

 

With a sigh he yanks the freezer open. As he expected, Jim has torn the package open, taken two strips and has shoved the rest in the freezer. “God damn it, Street.” Brian grumbles, dumping out the water in the mixer that has strawberry pieces floating in it. “I told you not to put the bacon in the freezer.” He makes sure the package is sealed tight before he fills the mixer with the hottest water the tap will allow, and dunks the package in the hot water. There were little pieces of strawberries and honey still floating in the water, but the package is sealed anyway. He _could_ use the defrost option on the microwave, but Jim is a picky bastard who can tell.

 

He turns quickly back to the pans and turns one off. He grabs three eggs from the carton and cracks them all neatly onto the pan. They start sizzling immediately, and Brian takes the second to put the egg and milk cartons back into the fridge. The baking soda and flour go into the pantry. Before he puts the honey and sugar and salt away, he takes a pinch of salt onto each egg, checks to makes sure they’re not burning, and shoves them all away in the cupboard.

 

Bacon. He fishes the bacon out of the hot water. It’s thawing, but not enough yet. He curses Jim’s incompetence again and turns back quickly to the eggs. He expertly flips two of the eggs – the yolk is just a tiny bit runny, the way Jim likes it – onto a plate, leaves the last egg for a minute longer and flips it onto another plate.

 

He rubs at the heated pan with a napkin, runs it under cool water just to hear it sizzle and rubs it down again before he places it back on the fire and yanks the pancake batter back out of the fridge. A quick glance to the clock tells him it’s 7:05. “Damn it, damn it.” Jim gets up at 7:15, on the dot, and Brian’s movements quicken as he scoops the batter out onto the oiled pan, filling it up completely. He turns the other stove back on and fishes the bacon out of the water. It’s not exactly done defrosting, but it’ll have to do.

 

He carefully peels the bacon layer by layer onto the pan. The ice remaining on some of the bacon hisses and jumps as it meets hot oil, but thankfully none of it land on him. Six pieces of bacon sizzle deliciously on the pan, and Brian shoves the bacon – in the fridge – and grabs the package of sausages. He fishes four out and dumps them next to the bacon.

 

Brian turns back to his pancake and flips it expertly. He notes with satisfaction that the pancake is coming along nicely, and he turns back to the bacon and the sausages. Jim likes his bacon just below the point of crisp, where they still are just a bit soft, and Brian flips all of them and rolls the sausage in bacon grease before he starts setting the table, pulling out forks and knives and maple syrup onto the table. He runs to the fridge and takes out the two strawberry smoothies and places them on the table before running back to his pans.

 

The first pancake is flipped onto Jim’s plate, and Brian wastes no time pouring the batter a second time onto the pan. The bacon is done, as well as the sausages, and Brian fishes them out from the oil, crinkling his nose in slight disgust and lays them out perfectly next to the eggs. He dumps a napkin into the pan after turning the heat off to soak up the grease, and when it’s saturated he dumps two more before he’s satisfied and he can toss the hot-oil-soaked napkins into the trash and run the pan under cold water.

 

He flips the second pancake onto his own plate and scrapes out the last of the batter for a third one. He risks a glance at the clock. 7:12. He has time, he has time. At 7:15, he hears Jim’s alarm go off and can’t help but smile as he hears the familiar grumble. He hears the water running in the bathroom. He still has a few more minutes until Jim finishes brushing his teeth. He uses a spatula to press the pancake down onto the pan. He usually doesn’t do this, because it makes the pancake ugly and deflated, but he’ll take ugly and deflated and done over pretty and inflated and undone any day.

 

He’s so absorbed in finishing his pancake that he jumps about three feet into the air when strong arms wrap around his waist. “Hey.” A low voice rumbles into his ear, heavy with sleep.

 

Brian grins. “Hey.” He whispers back, leaning into the taller man behind him. Jim chuckles into his ear and buries his face in Brian’s shoulder. Brian knows Jim has to bend awkwardly to do that because he’s shorter, but Jim doesn’t show any discomfort. He flips the third pancake onto Jim’s plate, and Jim laughs affectionately. “There, your breakfast.”

 

**ii. brunch**

 

Clint squats in front of the oven, even though JARVIS has told him over and over again that he’ll tell Clint when the muffins are done. Clint has forbade JARVIS from telling him. “No offense, JARVIS.” Clint waves a hand in the air. “But then it’d be _you_ making it, not me.”

 

JARVIS sounds a little put off when he says, “ _I understand, Agent Barton._ ”

 

Tony says JARVIS has a crush on Clint. Normal people would think it weird that a machine has a crush on them, but Clint lives with a demi-god, a super soldier, a doctor who turns into green rage monsters, a billionaire playboy philanthropist genius (he doesn’t know what order that’s in anymore), and a Russian who can kill people with a finger jab in the right place. And he’s dating one of them, so he doesn’t really think anything’s weird anymore.

 

He stares intently back at the clock and the muffins. When exactly 15 minutes has passed, he opens the fridge and uses the oven mitts (why does Tony even have oven mitts?) to take out the pan. He sniffs. Ah. Perfect, as always. He experimentally pokes a thin chopstick into each one and they all come out clean.

 

When he stands up to place the muffins on the counter, Natasha is already sitting on it, grinning at him cattily. He frowns. “These are for Bruce and Tony.”

 

“You mean those are for Tony. Bruce just gets some because they happen to be working in the same lab and you’re too nice to show up with one plate of food.” Natasha reached over and plucked a perfectly baked blueberry muffin from the oven pan that Clint was holding with a wink. “And you made nine because you’re really going to give them all this? You know they eat two each. Meaning you made the rest of the five for the rest of us. I’m just taking mine when it’s warm.”

 

Clint rolls his eyes as he places the pan next to her, because Natasha’s right. He eases two muffins out onto each of the two plates that he’d already taken out, and pushes the remaining four for Steve and Thor to find later on.

 

He turns to the bottom shelf of the oven and takes out the golden croissants and lays two on each plate before pushing the rest to Natasha. Natasha has already finished her muffin and plucks a croissant from the pan as Clint turns to the raspberries and blackberries he has in the sink. “I should thank Tony later.” Natasha snickers as she chews through the croissant. “If he wasn’t fucking you, you wouldn’t make this every day.”

 

Clint snorts. “You could ask and I’d do it, you know. And we’re _dating_.”

 

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. “So you mean when you’re limping around the Tower sometimes it’s because you sprained your ankle or something wrestling with him? Not because he fucked you?”

 

Clint sticks her tongue out at her, because she knows the answer and he knows she’s teasing. He places the fruits meticulously on the plates before reaching for the powdered sugar and lightly sprinkling each piece with it. “Did you see the orange juice I squeezed out yesterday?”

 

“Tony finished it yesterday night.” Natasha shrugs, dipping a raspberry in the powdered sugar before popping it in her mouth.

 

Clint sighs in frustration. “And you couldn’t tell me that before?”

 

“Hey, I thought you knew. It’s your job to _observe_ , isn’t it?” She smirks at him and he sighs. He digs through the fridge for oranges – and finds none. “Thor might have also eaten the rest of the oranges.” He lets out a frustrated groan. “Why don’t you make grape juice? We’ve plenty of grapes.”

 

“Takes way too long. Maybe if I was serving this to them _in two months._ ” He squats to dig through the giant fridge. “Hey, we’ve grapefruit. That’ll do.” He fishes out four large citrus fruits and hums in satisfaction. Natasha watches him like a hawk. “I’ll make enough for everyone.” He rolls his eyes, and she snickers.

 

He takes out his beloved citrus juicer and soon enough he has a large quantity of pink-orange liquid at the bottom. He pours two cups of sugar out into a bowl and then gently pours the liquid over them, stirring occasionally until he’s done, and then stirring gently throughout the entire thing until the sugar is dissolved. “Want a taste? It’s going to be ridiculously sweet, but you like ridiculously sweet things.”

 

She accepts the small cup he offers her and sips on the liquid. She grins. “We should just drink it like this.”

 

“I think it’s scary how the most dangerous woman in the world likes incredibly sweet things. What would happen if we ran out of candy in the world? You’d commit a huge massacre.”

 

“Thankfully we have you to make me sweet things.” Natasha smirks, sipping happily at the concentrate. “No huge massacre in foresight as long as you continue to bake muffins and cupcakes.”

 

Clint rolls his eyes and carefully pours cold water into the bowl, tasting every few seconds to make sure nothing’s too dilute. “Mm.” He sighs as he sips. “This is perfect.” He pours the contents of the bowl into a pitcher and pours out two tall glasses and opens the freezer. “At least Tony didn’t eat these.” He reaches out and pops out the ice tray. Natasha steals an orange-juice-ice-cube before Clint pops out four and pops them into the glasses. “All right, you can call Thor and Steve and have a party.” Clint snickers when she rolls her eyes.

 

Just as Clint is about to walk into the lab, Bruce comes out of it. He smiles when he sees the plates in Clint’s hands. “You don’t have to make it for me, you know.” Bruce says softly.

 

“I make for our entire dysfunctional family, doc. Here, take it.”

 

Bruce looks sheepish. “I’m heading to the kitchen for a quick break, anyway.”

 

“Well, take this with you anyway, it’s yours. Plus, by the time you get up there, Thor and Steve probably will have finished everything up there.” Bruce laughs lightly in response and gratefully accepts the plate. “Uh.. Has he slept?”

 

Bruce looks slightly guilty. “Yes, but not for long.”

 

Clint sighs but grins at Bruce. “All right, thanks.” He waves at the doctor as he slips inside the lab. Tony is frowning over something, and he quietly steps his way through the mess of the lab to Tony’s side.

 

Before he can even say anything, Tony whips around and hugs him around the middle. Clint laughs as he tries his hardest to balance everything on his plate. “Smells good.” Tony chuckles into his cheek. “Both you and my brunch.”

 

**iii. lunch**

 

Aaron doesn’t know how it came to this. Because honestly? Jason Bourne is the reason why all these people are after him, trying to kill him. He hated Jason Bourne the moment he saw the news. He hated him for being the reason why he had to be on the run, and he hated him even more the day Marta was shot dead. But he understood why Bourne had done it, and that made him hate him even more.

 

There is a reason why everything is past tense, and that’s because currently they share a bed, and Aaron doesn’t know what the hell to think about that. He rubs his head to chase all the complicated thoughts away and then squats down. There is pretty much absolutely nothing he can really make in their little run-down shack, but Jason likes celebrating today because it’s the day they first met. They don’t know when their birthdays are, and Jason doesn’t know when his ‘death day’ is either, so they just celebrate the day they met.

 

Aaron thinks it’s sort of dumb, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He huddles into a coat and wraps a scarf around his neck, covering everything up to his nose. “Ready?” Jason is in the room, dressing the same way. It’s not only because it’s freezing up in the rural areas of Russia this time of the year – it’s because they don’t want any stray satellites or anything to pick up on their faces.

 

“Yeah.” Jason tugs down his scarf and presses dry lips to Aaron’s forehead. Jason’s a good 4-5 inches taller than him, and it ticks Aaron off a little, but again he stays quiet and shuffles along Jason’s side as Jason takes his hand.

 

When they first came to this village, Jason introduced Aaron as his little brother who was mentally retarded. Aaron first balked at it, but Jason had managed to convince him. Aaron huffs out a breath and it comes out as a frozen mist through his scarf as they step outside. He doesn’t even look younger than Jason.

 

Either way, it gives them a pretty good excuse to be two grown men holding hands as they walk outside. Plus, the villagers like to take pity on Aaron and give him free things, which is, honestly, something Aaron can stand pretending to have below-average IQ for. He shuffles closer to Jason and wonders how the villagers would react if they found out the ‘older brother’ was actually fucking the ‘little brother’ and that’s why Aaron limped most of the time, not because he was challenged.

 

He doesn’t forget to shine a smile at the tiny store’s owner as they enter the only store in the area for about a fifty mile radius. He remembers what it was like, not understanding the horrors of the world and being innocent enough to beam at everything, so it’s not too hard to smile like it.

 

For his efforts, the store owner gives Jason an extra scoop of cream cheese and hands Aaron a bag of tiny candies. Aaron completely understands the Russian between Jason and the owner, but he pulls a clueless look across his face. “He says it’s your birthday present, Ken. Say ‘spasibo.’”

 

It’s not hard to fuck up the pronunciation completely, but the store owner smiles and claps him on the shoulder anyway. Aaron just thinks it’s effing hilarious that they’re ‘Ken’ and ‘Dave’ now, the names they had before they became Aaron and Jason.

 

When they’re hidden back in the safety of their secluded cabin, Aaron takes a look at the things Jason bought. Crackers, sticks of butter, cream cheese, eggs, dried fruit, and he has his bag of candy. Huh. “Hey.” He looks up. “I think I can make cheesecake from this. I mean, it might taste a bit like shit, because most of these things are gonna be substitute.”

 

Jason looks impressed. He sets up the oven. “Go ahead.” He sits down on the table and watches as Aaron works. He helps Aaron when Aaron instructs him – crush the crackers, melt the butter, mix the batter, etc. Aaron watches worriedly as the candies in the pot that he’s set over the fire melts. He’s not even sure how he’s going to move the sticky liquid from the pan into the pancake mix. He wonders how the hell he’s going to mix it into the batter, but that’s Jason’s job, not his.

 

When the candies are all melted, he dips a spoon in it to find it surprisingly yielding, and hopes he’s making the right measurements as he scoops glops out. “Substitute for sugar?” Jason laughs, and Aaron glares. Jason mixes it all up surprisingly easily and Aaron tastes the batter.

 

Hey. It’s not bad. He shoves the batter into their oven and pulls out the dried fruit. He finds blueberries and strawberries and apples in it, and with a lot of squishing and adding melted candy over the stove fire, the stuff in his pan starts to semi-resemble some kind of fruit spread. He’s not exactly elated with it, but it’ll have to do.

 

He doesn’t estimate the time he needs for the cake batter to cook – he checks periodically because stone ovens that are operated by actual fire have fickle temperature fluctuations, so he squats in front of the oven as Jason’s hands massage his shoulders. When he’s satisfied enough, he takes it out and spreads the hardening candy-dried-fruit-mix onto it. He should be leaving it out to cool, he knows that, but he can’t help but take a slice (it’s hard to cut through the candied top) and hand it over to Jason before he slides the rest of the cake in the make-shift fridge Jason and he made when they first got here, out in the freezing temperatures. He wonders how he’s going to cut through the top layer when it’s all cool.

 

“This thing tastes delicious.” Jason smiles as Aaron sits next to him on their dining table. He takes a bite, and Jason’s right – it tastes pretty damned good, especially for something Aaron had to make out of melted candy instead of regular sugar. Not to mention saltine crackers instead of graham crackers. And dried fruit instead of regular ones. He’s pretty damned proud of himself.

 

Jason cuts a piece for him and Aaron accepts it, bite by bite as Jason feeds himself and Aaron in intervals. The slice is gone in moments, and Jason looks satisfied at the end. “How was it?” Aaron asks lazily.

 

“I told you. Delicious.” Jason tugs his hand closer and pulls him into a deep kiss. When they part, Aaron’s cheeks are a little flushed and Jason is grinning. “We should just have the entire cake for lunch.”

 

**iv. dinner**

 

It’s not the first time Will’s cooked for a lover. Not even close. And in fact, every time, he’d gotten gushes of compliments and a fantastic night in bed. But his past girlfriends and boyfriends weren’t Ethan Hunt. Will has no idea what to cook, and the problem is he can’t even make it a huge, fancy one because Ethan was just like, _you don’t have analyst duties today or tomorrow, right? I’m going to come over._

 

And that meant _I’m going to come over and we’re going to have sex_ , not _I’m going to come over and I expect a huge dinner_. So Will has settled on alfredo, because pasta is something he’s pretty good at, and it also doesn’t require much work. He even had most of the ingredients. He’d gone out to get pasta and garlic powder, and hadn’t even realized he was so nervous about the entire thing.

 

Relax, he tells himself. It’s just Ethan. He’ll probably just think you got the sauce out of a container. That thought makes him calm down a little more. Plus, it’s just _alfredo_. How hard can it be? He’s made it uncountable times before, especially he was feeling bored for dinner.

 

With that in mind, he heats a pan and eases the butter onto it. When it’s all melted, he scoops out the entire 8 ounce packet of cream cheese, measures out garlic powder and has the milk ready as he whisks through the mixture, humming to himself. He pours small amounts of milk at a time, making sure there aren’t any unwanted bubbles or clumps, and when it’s all done he dumps in the grated Parmesan and uses his pepper grinder to flake black pepper into the mix.

 

He quickly sets up a large pot with water on the side, measuring out salt into the water. The sauce thickens quickly so he has to mix it rapidly again, and when it’s all smooth, he tastes it. Perfect. What had he been so worried about? He pours the sauce into a glass jar, scraping out until the very end. He cleans up the trash from the butter and cream cheese packages and washes out the jar so Ethan won’t know he actually made the sauce. Because what if he hates it? Then Will can just blame it on the manufacturer.

 

Will jumps when the water starts boiling and hissing as it overflows, and he quickly measures out two servings of fettuccine into the water. He watches it carefully because he has a history of undercooking fettuccine, and he tastes it to make sure everything is fine.

 

He drains the water and sets up the two pasta plates. Ethan’s due any minute now, so he has no danger of the pasta cooling and becoming gross. He turns the stove on again after a second and fishes the frozen shrimp from his freezer. It’s not the best, but it’ll do.

 

He butters a pan again and lets it heat up a little before he takes out a few shrimp and runs to the fridge to slam it back in the freezer before sprinkling garlic powder on them. He lets them cook and stiffens when he hears the door unlock, open and close. “It’s me.” Ethan calls from the doorway.

 

“I know it’s you. Who else has my key?” Will laughs. “I’m in the kitchen. I hope you didn’t eat dinner yet, because I just whipped us something.”

 

Ethan’s smiling as he enters the kitchen. “No. I’m starving.” He sniffs the air and takes note of the white sauce in the container. “Alfredo?”

 

“Yup. Gimme a second with the shrimp. I need to heat the sauce, too.”

 

“I can heat the sauce.” Ethan offers, but Will shakes his head. He doesn’t want Ethan to touch the jar and find it actually warm. He hands Ethan the shrimp pan – they’re pretty much almost done anyway – and he eases out the sauce into a pan. The sauce has already cooled and thickened a little, but he has to work very little on it before it’s back to its perfect state.

 

Ethan has already put the shrimp on the pasta dishes, so Will just pours the sauce out of the pan onto the top, dumps the pan into the sink, closes the jar and puts it in the fridge before taking two forks and joining Ethan on the table. “Wine?”

 

Ethan considers it. “Hm, no. I want to be sober tonight.”

 

Will’s cheeks flush a deep red because he knows what _that_ means. “Just water then?” He’s aware Ethan is chuckling at him because of his embarrassment, and he fetches two glasses of water. “You should’ve started.” Will looks pointedly at the untouched plate before Ethan.

 

“Wanted to wait for you. Seemed a little rude.” Ethan winks. He digs into the plate as soon as Will sits down, and Will pretends to eat along but finds his hands sweating. “This is good.” Ethan sighs contently, and Will reciprocates the sigh, not because he likes the taste but because Ethan does. “You made it.”

 

Will blinks but he’s honestly not even surprised. “Of course you knew.” He chuckles, defeated. “Is it really okay? I didn’t know if I should’ve added the shrimp or not. Also, I sort of miscook fettuccine all the time, and I don’t know if that turned out okay, either. How’s the sauce? Too cheesy? Too runny? It was perfect before, but then it cooled a little and I didn’t really get to taste it before I put it back out, and-”

 

Ethan’s laugh cut him off mid-ramble. “Will. Relax. It tastes better than any other alfredo I’ve tasted, anywhere else. The pasta is perfect, the sauce is perfect, and the only thing off is the shrimp, and that’s because I burned it a little at the end.”

 

Will can’t help it – he laughs as he picks out a shrimp. True to Ethan’s word, it’s a little charred. He pops it in his mouth and teases, “Maybe I should just take care of the entire thing next time.”

 

Ethan snickers as he digs his fork into the pasta. “Yes, definitely. I’d like that. You cooking for us. Where’d you learn to cook?”

 

Will shrugs. “It’s something I did since I was a kid. I liked cooking, so I just kept doing it.” He took a bite of the pasta. “We should invite Benji and Jane next time.”

 

Ethan gives this a long thought before he picks his plate up, drags his chair over and brings both to Will’s side. He sits down and smiles at Will, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Maybe. But to be honest, I’d like to just hog this all to myself.”

  
Will can’t help but laugh at this as he moves to squeeze Ethan’s wrist. “You’re a little possessive.”

 

Ethan chuckles and kisses Will again. “I’ll show you just how possessive I can get tonight after dinner.”

 

**v. midnight snack**

 

“’M hungry.” Colin mutters into his neck, nibbling at the soft skin.

 

Jeremy tries to throw Colin’s arms away from where they are locked around his waist. “Go get something to eat, then.” He grumbles, annoyed. “I’m sleeping. It’s like 3 in the morning.”

 

“But I’m _hungry_.” Colin insists, nibbling on Jeremy’s ear now. “If you don’t feed me something, I’m gonna end up eating you up instead.”

 

Jeremy sighs. They’re both completely naked and he has no doubt Colin means what he says, except in the complete sexual way, because he can feel Colin’s arousal pressing on him. “You’re hopeless.” He grumbles, and doesn’t bother reaching for his boxers or anything else because he knows part of this is Colin wanting to see him in just an apron.

 

Colin follows eagerly, apparently not at all shy about the naked hardness in between his legs. “You squirmed too much today.” Colin explains as he plops down onto the chair. “I had to use too much effort, okay?” Jeremy throws him the towel he’d been drying his hands in reply and Colin looks over. “Apron?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you pervert. I’m on it.” Jeremy takes the _Kiss the Cook_ apron off the hook and drapes it around him. He’s done this for Colin too many times for him to be embarrassed about this now. He digs through the fridge. He’s too sleep-addled to figure out what he can make for Colin, so he digs through it for a while. “I can make you guacamole. We have chips somewhere, too.”

 

“Yeah, sounds good.” Colin says, from right behind him, and Jeremy’s too used to the entire thing to react when Colin wraps his arms around Jeremy’s waist, pressing his erection onto Jeremy’s bare ass. “Mm, I do wanna eat you up, though.”

 

Jeremy manages to standup straight even with Colin bent over him. “Go back to the table and be a good boy while I do this.” Colin whines but obeys, resting his chin on his hands as Jeremy crushes avocados and minces cilantro, tomatoes, garlic and onions all together. “Actually, make yourself useful and squeeze this lime for me.” He tosses the lime at Colin. “The juicer’s somewhere in the cupboard.”

 

Colin takes no time to find the juicer and to squeeze the juice out, and Jeremy takes the cup that Colin offers him. Colin’s arms are around Jeremy again. “If I fuck you while you’re making that, will you mess it up?”

 

Jeremy reaches over and slaps Colin’s cheek lightly with the spoon he’s been using to mix the guacamole together. It leaves a green mush on Colin’s cheek and Colin laughs as Jeremy grins. “If you fuck me while I’m making this, I’m going to push you down onto the tile and ride you until you’re spent, and then go back into the room and not make you anything.”

 

Colin laughs. “If you ride me until I’m spent, you’re gonna be too sore to be doing any walking back to the room.” He lets Jeremy go anyway, and wipes his cheek on his hands. He dips a finger into the mixture Jeremy’s mixing, and frowns. “It’s not salty enough.”

 

“Ah, right. Salt.” Jeremy reaches over to pluck salt from the counter. “Thanks for reminding me.” About thirty seconds later, Jeremy finds the bag of chips and Colin moans happily around the dip. “Good enough?”

 

“Fuck yes.” Colin sighs. “I really did spend myself fucking you, you know.”

 

Jeremy snickers and takes a chip-and-dip for himself as well. “I know, I’ve got the sores to prove it.” He flicks the guacamole playfully at Colin. “Does this mean you’re gonna be feeling up to a few more rounds tonight?”

 

Colin snickers. “I thought you were sleepy.”

 

Jeremy grins right back. “I’m all awake now. And maybe I don’t have anything scheduled tomorrow and maybe I don’t really have to be able to walk.”

 

Colin makes a satisfied noise in his throat. “You’re making me an offer I can’t refuse, Renner.” He crunches down onto a chip. “Plus, all the calories from this have to go _somewhere_ , right? And what burns calories better than sex?”

 

“Exactly my thoughts. We do have to watch our weight. Promoting our new movies and all.” Jeremy takes another chip and Colin grins as he stands up.

 

“Yeah, come on. I think I want part two of my midnight snack.”


End file.
